


The Burial of the Dead

by Delcat, mimepowerhour



Series: Waste Lands [2]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Hot Guys Vomiting Blood, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicide Attempt, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-20 19:38:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1523126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delcat/pseuds/Delcat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimepowerhour/pseuds/mimepowerhour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being rescued from Maxwell's prison, Wes becomes somewhat attached to his rescuer. This, as it turns out, is a terrible mistake. Maxwell just HATES people touching his things..</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Forgetful Snow

**Author's Note:**

> FROM RAILE: Game of Silence is a sort of prologue to this. If you haven't read it, this story won't make much sense after this chapter.
> 
> Also, this fic (The Burial of the Dead) actually has three authors. 
> 
> It is, at its core, a collaboration between Delcat and me, and was achieved through much discussion and a sort of round-robin approach to writing it. Most of Wilson is Delcat's doing. Most of Wes is mine. Everything else is divided between us. 
> 
> The third author is my friend Raina, who helped inspire the whole thing with her own Wilson. 
> 
> After that, I just kind of lost control of my life. 
> 
> \--
> 
> ON DELCAT: Del usually writes Maxwil, but had his arm twisted into backing Maxwell with the citation that he's too good at it. He's a little worried about that statement. His Wilson was hybridized out of Raina's base Wilson with SCIENCE. In true mad scientist tradition, he is now completely out of control.
> 
> Del has figured out exactly when he lost control of his life, but only through careful study of "date modified" tags on his horrible, horrible files.

Wilson had rescued him. 

The time he’d spent in Maxwell’s prison had been an inexact and indistinguishable haze of rain and isolation, and the sight of another person had come as more of a delusion than a shock--but real he was, and at the end of it, with Wilson exhausted and bleeding and Wes free-- _free_ \--Wes had experienced a form of gratitude far beyond the scale of anything he’d known possible. 

After that, it was only natural that they work together. Wilson stuck around, and Wes reciprocated; Wes’ debt of gratitude and the amount of time it had been since either had seen a human being was more than enough to force them to work through their initial difficulties. And there were difficulties. They had both been alone for so long that even the most basic of interactions were a struggle, made moreso by months of toil and solitude. Wes had frankly forgotten how to react to people speaking to him, and his ability to tolerate another person’s presence had deteriorated profoundly--thanks in part, no doubt, to Maxwell. And Wilson--Wilson was positively feral at first; he spoke to trees, he complained loudly about ghosts, he screamed battle cries at butterflies, and he sang to himself in the rain. He’d actually sported a beard the likes of which Wes hadn’t seen since he’d left France--Wes eventually took it upon himself to make a razor for him. Thankfully, Wilson seemed to take the hint.

As time passed, they learned each other. Wilson was good company, and he made it easy in some respects; he was a man who spoke a great deal, sometimes to the effect of actually saying very little--a man that you could listen to for weeks or even months and learn every thought he’d ever had about shovels, but only get the briefest details about things like where he came from or what he was trying to accomplish with that many live rabbits and wooden boards. Sometimes Wes wasn’t sure Wilson knew what he was trying to accomplish either. 

Wes never spoke back, but their conversations were not always one sided. Wilson learned to follow pantomime, and made a few comically inept attempts at it himself, much to Wes’ merriment.

But winter, when it came, was hard. Harder for two mouths to feed, two bodies to clothe--but easier for two pairs of hands to carry, two people to hunt, to gather resources. Nights were among the worst, for they were even colder--it was because of this that they'd decided to give in to the inevitable and share each others' space, their body heat.

Which meant sharing a bedroll--it was just straw, but insulating enough. Next to a fire, with two people in it, it was almost cosy. Which made it that much harder to wake up from, to emerge from the deceptive warmth of sleep to the cold winter air.

Wes in particular seemed thoroughly at peace as he slept. He took his makeup off every night and reapplied it every morning; when he was asleep, he really looked like any other human being. 

He lay on his side, his spine curved just slightly, but he clung to oblivion as he was roused by Wilson's movement, wanting to forego the reality of another winter morning just a little longer. When the bedroll shifted again, however--slowly, reluctantly, his eyes opened. He was just short of face to face with Wilson, and for a moment, he was almost alarmed--then he realised where he was and why. 

Wilson stared directly into the other's eyes for a moment, completely frozen.

He then proceeded to flush crimson.

"G... good morning?"

Wes looked at him in confusion, then moved, intending to raise his hand to wave--really more just with his fingers than anything--and also perhaps stretch a bit before trying to extricate himself.

In doing so, however, he brushed his hand against Wilson's knee--or what he thought was Wilson's knee.

Wilson jerked away, except that there wasn't anywhere to go--it turned into him simply tensing, ducking his gaze so that it was anywhere but Wes' face.

"I... I, uh. Need to go. Somewhere."

Wes blinked; Wilson was prone to fits of awkwardness, but he couldn’t quite figure out why he’d be so agitated. If he needed to piss, he could just go in the bushes. For a moment, the grogginess of his postsleep state allowed the particulars of the situation to elude him.

Then realisation hit him. Wilson’s nervousness, the tightness of the bedroll, and the heat of what his hand had briefly touched...

The mime stopped, averting his eyes briefly, though a faint smile crept at the corners of his mouth. Some of it was genuine embarrassment--as much for Wilson as anyone--but the man honestly seemed think that if he spread that nervous, lopsided smile wide enough, it’d distract Wes from his predicament, and he couldn’t entirely mask his amusement. 

Wilson caught Wes's expression, and if possible, turned even redder. He tried to curl his body inward a little, but that only put him closer to Wes, which only intensified the awkwardness of it all. He hissed a little through his teeth, and then covered his face with his hands.

Wes had a moment of not-quite-discomfort as Wilson pressed closer against him, and he went temporarily still and rigid. The heat of Wilson's body and the press of his shame was a shock, but then Wilson buried his face deeper in his hands, and Wes lost his ability to be embarrassed in favour of trying not to produce one of his silent laughs--and trying to give Wilson a little room. 

It was not particularly successful, however, and he ended up rubbing up against that specific spot--stimulating a specific spot of his own.

Wilson sucked in a breath.

"Um! Maybe we should... get up and. Gather... things."

Wes held his breath a moment. Then he let it out, slowly, trying to keep his own reactions to a minimum. He was, at the very least, not blushing--but his expression was slightly worried itself now. 

He didn’t know what to do. 

Wilson, meanwhile, was starting to look like a trapped rabbit. He stretched his body back out correctly to make to slide his way out of the makeshift bedding, but it was a mistake--heat brushed close to heat again, and he ended up stopping short, shivering.

"Um. Sorry."

He gave that pathetic, uneven smile again.

Wes inhaled again, still mute--they were too close, and it was too much. His face creased slightly, and he turned his face away for a moment, but it was clear he had felt something; his expression was a little strained, his mischievous sense of humour eclipsed now by a swell of embarrassment. 

Suddenly Wilson was not the only one suffering from basic needs.

Wes' face began to colour and he shut his eyes, but he could not, in fact, deny the growing warmth--even as he tried to fight it, it was still there, and he didn't dare move. 

Wilson did. Or he tried to. He tried to shift up, to keep himself not touching the other while moving, but--

He jerked back as they touched again, hard enough to pull the bedroll with him, face flushing harder at the sudden contact it caused.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t--I didn’t mean to do that--I don’t mean that I mind that you--I mean that that was not my intent but I am aware it was also not yours and I don’t wish to cause offense--”

The combinations of words became less and less effective as he added to them, but he couldn’t stop them from machine-gunning out.

Wes was silent--desperately so. He realised the solution--not the only solution, but solution nonetheless. And once he thought of it, he couldn’t get rid of it. But he didn't know how to begin to explain this, how to suggest--or not suggest. He was starting to panic, and reached up, putting a finger against Wilson’s lips firmly. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do--or rather, he knew what he was _supposed_ to do, and what he was probably not supposed to do, but--

But he realised there was no graceful way out.

He reached out with his other hand, pressing his palm against Wilson's erection as he shut his eyes.

All the breath suddenly rushed out of Wilson's lungs at once, the exhalation briefly hot on the mime’s neck.

Wes sucked in his breath sharply, but didn't move his hand away--in fact, he pressed his hand closer, shifting himself; his eyes opened again, making tentative contact, but closed a second later as he closed the distance between them, biting his lip as he did.

His own sensitivity was asserting itself, and he tried to keep it--

Well. There would be no keeping it to himself much longer. He could only try to keep his composure through it.

Wilson was obviously torn, blood pink in his cheeks, and he seemed to struggle inwardly for a moment, but at last he laid his head down, letting his own eyes flutter closed. He let his hips roll up, though he was unsure of what to do with his own hands. For the moment, they hung awkwardly at his side--the one that he wasn't laying on finally found a place at the other man's shoulder.

Wes was caught off guard by the touch, and he opened his eyes briefly in surprise; he didn't stop, though--could not, really. He could feel the pressure in his body, in Wilson's body, and he wanted it. He knew he should not--shouldn't even be doing this, but his breath came a little shorter as he rolled his palm into the heat at Wilson's inseam, his long fingers seeking the length of it through his pants.

Wilson exhaled shakily, his grip on Wes's shoulder tightening slightly. His movements were awkward, uncertain, but he placed his hand instead against the other's chest, for the time being, his breath shortening, his heart speeding up only a little under his fingertips.

Wes had hardly touched Wilson since meeting him, and had in turn hardly been touched. And before that... Wes had been unable to touch anyone--indeed, any _thing_ \--at all. The close contact was intoxicating, in a way; it was certainly encouraging, and he moved his free hand down to the waist of his own pants, where he slipped his hand inside.

Pressing the heel of his palm against his erection, he rolled his hips slightly, biting his lip at the rush of gratification. His other hand did not stop its work, though, and he fumbled a moment before finding a rhythm that would allow him to rub his own cock and Wilson's at the same time.

It was a moment before Wilson realized there was more going on than just his being touched. He opened his eyes, lids heavy, to look, and… kept looking. He paused, unsure, for a long moment, before slipping his hand down to brush at Wes's arm where his hand had slid into his pants.

It was a quiet kind of offer.

Wes looked up, meeting Wilson's eyes with a flush of surprise--which turned into a kind of gratitude. Certainly permission--he nodded somewhat breathlessly, hesitating just a moment before removing his hand from his own pants and reaching to take Wilson's zipper.

Here he paused, making sure--absolutely sure before he did what he knew he was going to do.

Wilson only hesitated a moment himself before inclining his head slightly, encouraging him to go on, and was still for a beat before cupping his hand over Wes's cock.

Wes closed his eyes, just briefly, at the contact, then opened them again, deft fingers finding Wilson’s zippered fly. When had he started to want this? How long--? It was a pointless question, but one that cropped up in the back of his mind momentarily before he shooed it away. He didn't care right now; he wanted it, and Wilson wanted it--he was allowing it, and that was all that mattered. He opened the scientist's pants and found Wilson's cock in short order. He wrapped his fingers around it, attempting a few strokes--then pulled back in some surprise, flustered by the unexpected difference. Then he remembered--American tradition. Of course. He should have seen it coming, but… well. He had wondered before if the cut destroyed other men’s pleasure, but it didn’t seem the case here.

Wilson didn’t notice the other’s surprise, eyes made hazy by the sensations of touch and heat and pleasure. He followed Wes's lead, fumbling to find the fastenings of his pants and rend them quite unfastened, and then blindly pushed himself forward in his actions, closing his fingers around the other man's cock.

Wes was unable to reconcile his confusion for a moment, because then Wilson had him in hand and he arched, suddenly, his breath leaving his lungs in a sudden rush.

Wilson caught that reaction, and... for some reason, it made him smirk. He wasn't entirely sure why. Perhaps it was funny, or endearing somehow--to see himself have such an effect. He stroked the mime slowly, watching his face with that faint smile still on his.

Wes sucked in his breath again, then let out something that was almost a whine--almost, but not quite, for there was still no voice in it.

Wilson's touch--

Wes' hips moved to meet it--sharply, desperately, his need rising quickly--but his fingers curled back around Wilson's cock quickly, other needs not forgotten--because Wilson's need and his--

He let his hands feel Wilson, all of him, hot skin and hard cock under his fingertips, his own breath hitched from desperate need.

“Oh--”

Wilson's hips jerked rather inelegantly, and his own strokes slowed for a moment, as he suddenly found himself rather distracted.

Wes hardly seemed to mind--he slowed a little, but did not stop; he did, however, raise his gaze to Wilson's before dropping it again, almost embarrassed, and he shut his eyes, pressing into the other man a little desperately.

In a moment, Wilson remembered, seeming embarrassed in his own way--he was a _gentleman_ scientist, after all. He redoubled his own strokes, pumping Wes's cock a little more quickly, his motions a little more certain.

Wes rolled his hips, his own stroking picking up again, his breath coming in shorter, sharper gasps. He matched Wilson's pace, pleasure and heat and need building beneath the scientist's hands.

He realised, suddenly and with a fleeting breath of buried alarm, that he might not be able to entirely contain his voice--that this might be too much, even for him.

And it was.

He came with a rush of heat, and his voice escaped him; it was a sound short but clear, and his eyes widened before he clapped his hand over his mouth, equal parts embarrassed and dismayed. 

Wilson wasn’t quite back to himself yet, lost in thought and… well, in other things, but it was enough of a surprise to register. “You--wait, you can speak?”

Wes’ hand remained in place, but he was also breathing hard, his eyes having drifted closed in the post-coital haze; he opened them to regard Wilson for a moment, his expression ambivalent. He took his hand from his mouth and placed a finger over Wilson’s mouth again--now was not the time for that one. 

Wilson’s mouth was already open as he reached forward, questions waiting to spill out, but the touch of Wes’ finger to his lips cut him short. His cheeks reddened, and Wes realized where his hand had just been, and the effect that thought must be having on the scientist. It was a distantly powerful feeling.

“Yes. I.” He coughed, flustered. “...well. That’s… that’s solved, then, we should… we should, uh. Start the day.”

Wes nodded quickly, removing his hand from Wilson’s lips and extricating himself--it was hard, he was more reluctant to leave the warmth and comfort of the straw bedding now than ever before, but the heady smell of the dried grass and--well, other things. Emerging, he sucked in his breath with a quick hiss, setting his teeth against the bite of the cold winter air. 

As Wilson followed, uncharacteristically quiet, a dark figure dropped a cigar butt on the ground, stubbed it out with one polished leather sole. A grin had been developing slowly as he watched the two men, and it was now almost unpleasantly wide.

Maxwell checked the sun, considered the time.

They could start the day however they wanted. He was going to be there to end it.


	2. Desolate and Empty Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maxwell makes his move. Unlike lightning, however, Maxwell sees nothing wrong with striking twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FROM RAILE: Well, that escalated quickly. Hopefully the presence of some kind of important continuity is starting to develop. I'll confess, this story was not actually meant to get quite so dramatic or so blatantly shippy, but apparently if you add Delcat and stir...
> 
> FROM DELCAT: Del is so sorry. Del is so so so sorry for everything. Except sneaking the Comfortably Numb reference past Raile. He feels pretty good about that, actually.

After the events of the morning, Wes and Wilson split up to forage, though Wes was having a hard time keeping his mind on his work. It had become routine in winter; if they needed to band together for something bigger, they kept a general accounting of where each would be, but with resources scarce and getting scarcer--and two mouths to feed--it was imperative they cover as much ground as possible. It not only allowed them to set and check twice as many traps, it also let them split up tasks according to their respective strengths. Wes was more suited to stripping saplings of branches than he was to chopping large trees, for example--neither of them were really built for that kind of work, honestly, but Wilson seemed to have a better time of it than Wes, so that was Wilson’s job. 

The aftermath of the morning had left Wes feeling anxious--uncertain and confused. Wilson had hardly spoken afterwards, and they had both parted ways quickly. Making up for lost time. Escaping the strangeness that swelled with every awkward second they remained in camp. 

But as dusk began to creep in through the trees, casting longer and longer shadows, Wes began to bundle the last of the twigs for easier transport back to base.

If he hadn’t been quite so distracted, he might have noticed just how long the shadows were.

The noxious smell of smoke tipped him off just a moment too late; he could not escape the first shadow hand, and it was joined by others in quick succession, pulling him to his knees in the snow. Wes hit the ground hard, the handfuls of twigs scattering over the icy earth. A shock of pain jolted up through his knees, but he was given little time to react before the shadow’s claws clamped over his arms, his torso--this time, however, his mouth was spared. And that was reason enough to be afraid. 

“Tch. Not much of an improvement.” Maxwell’s cigar glowed in the shade of the trees. “Thought I might like the view a little better like this, but you’re just that good at ruining things, huh friend?”

Wes stared back at the man--or at least, at the hot point of his cigar, a red circle of light burning in the darkness. He was as much frozen as he was held; he kept his breath out of fear, paralysed with shock and silent loathing.

“It’s a good place for you, don’t get me wrong.” Failing light slid over Maxwell’s face as he stepped forward, stiflingly close, dangerously close. A grin revealed itself as Wes stiffened in horror, his understanding of his position emerging quickly; a cloud of frozen breath closed the gap between his lips and the fabric of the demon’s pants, and he could feel an ugly heat rising from his body. “We’ll see you kissing my boots soon enough.”

The shadows jerked him upright, far enough that Maxwell could stroke his face with one gloved hand. “That’s not all you’re kissing these days, is it?”

Despite his struggles, Wes froze at Maxwell’s touch and the accompanying words, paling beneath his makeup. The biting chill of the winter air was suddenly inconsequential compared to the cold that spread through his body. A sick knot coiled up his gut, monstrous and hot. 

“Been a little too cold for you, doll? Wanted a little body heat?” He took Wes’ face in his hand. “Fucking adorable.”

Wes flinched, then jerked his head away, trying to pull back--his eyes shut tightly by reflex; apprehension was infused with despair, with fear, with _humiliation_ , and Maxwell’s grip tightened in response, holding him fast.

“So _cute_.” Maxwell shifted his grip, keeping his thumb and forefingers on Wes’ jaw while the others slid down to his throat. “And yet, you wound me. I gave you all the love you could’ve asked for, and you never said so much as ‘Thank you, sir.’ And you give it up for that ridiculous little man?” His grip tightened dangerously. “Wes, I’m hurt.”

Wes’ eyes flew open, at first with shock--and then for a second, they burned with actual anger, a flash of defiance as the mime grit his teeth silently, just shy of baring them back at his tormentor. He did not. He was not so daring or so stupid; he did stare back, however, meeting Maxwell’s ink-black eyes with a boldness that was, at best, ill-advised. 

This was probably a mistake.

“Say you’re sorry, pal.” There was always a tint of danger in Maxwell’s voice, but the threat was clearly edged now, sharpened by Wes’ refusal to give. “Say you’re sorry. Beg me for mercy. Or it’ll be the last thing you ever had a chance to say.”

Wes’ heart hammered in his chest, his pulse in his ears--and he stared back at him, his jaw still set. 

Silence.

This was definitely a mistake.

Rage burned in Maxwell’s eyes, and for a second the fine veins there pulsed black, not red. 

Then, gradually, he grinned.

“Hmph.” His hand tightened. “Try to do a friend a favour.”

For half a moment, Wes thought Maxwell was going to strangle him again, and he braced for it, anticipating the cutoff. Half a moment, that is, before the pain exploded in his throat, immediately cutting off his air supply. Something was being drawn out from Maxwell’s fingertips just above his lungs, something horrible and barbed. Wes thrashed, or tried to, a paroxysm of agony erupting in his chest as he felt more than heard something crack, blood rushing up into his mouth. His throat tried to close, and he almost tried to cry out--almost, but neither was possible as the pain pierced any threshold he had, his attempt to scream destroyed by the rise of blood and the flutter of torn tissue. He realised what was happening--only distantly, vaguely, a tiny fractured piece of consciousness understanding that this was Maxwell’s punishment, his promise fulfilled, but he could do nothing; he realised, too, that he was crying, that the run of tears blinding him were in fact his own. This too was beyond his control. 

“Oh, don’t!” False sweetness filled Maxwell’s voice as he roughly wiped away a tear, leaving a long streak down Wes’ face. “You don’t want your mascara running, do you? I thought you were a professional.”

Wes was choking on blood, on pain, on horror. He could make no sound except for sick, laboured gurgles of breath and agony. He had only enough mind to try and turn his face away, to--on some level--escape. But there was no escape.

Maxwell exhaled smoke, and the sweetness was replaced by fangs. “You think you found a boyfriend, you wretched little cocksucker?” The shadow hands dropped away, and he kicked Wes viciously in the side when he fell. “Try telling him ‘I love you’ like that.”

He flicked away his cigar butt and disappeared, leaving Wes alone in the snow.

Wes could make no sound, no gesture against the blow, physical or otherwise; he hit the ground and curled there, twisting and writhing in desperate agony, blood filling his mouth and dribbling onto the snow, where it pooled hot and dark. He couldn’t breathe--something alien filled his airway, something that burned and pierced and throbbed inside of his chest and throat; his chest heaved, his tear-streaked face pressing into the ice, his makeup a grotesque smear as he shuddered out in a blind wave of darkness.

Heat brought him around again, someone pulling him up onto his hands and he experienced a new flash of horror, of fight renewed as he was jolted by pain, a fist pounded into the small of his back--

\--but the shockwave bolted through him, through the mess of his lungs and forced the blood and bile into his mouth. He could breathe, not easily or well, but he could breathe again. Wes coughed--or almost coughed, it was more a weak gagging, a feeble constriction of a single muscle in his throat as he retched weakly, a hot and excruciating ejection of his body’s contents. He could barely see, but something terrible--something _black_ \--came up, dissolving darkly into the vomited blood and tissue. 

His body, enervated, succumbed to its exhaustion, and his arms gave back out.

“...es, Wes oh God look at me, what happened, what hurt you, where does it hurt?” Wilson’s voice only came through in waves over the ringing in Wes’ ears as he pulled him upright, holding him back against his chest. He was trying frantically to examine him, and every movement was a small burst of agony, but he was warm. And he wasn’t Maxwell.

Wes stared at him through the haze, unable to muster enough of himself to respond, not immediately. Finally, pointlessly, he shook his head--a small movement that nevertheless managed to suffuse his chest and throat with hot agony, and he regretted it. 

“No--no no no no no, don’t die, stop dying, I--Wes, stop dying!” His tone was briefly commanding, as if he could reverse the injuries by being firm enough, and then it dropped into cold fear. “Don’t die. Wes, don’t die. Hold on, hold on…” He fumbled for something, and suddenly his hand was on Wes’ jaw.

Even delirious from pain, from blood loss, from the absence and return of oxygen, it took only the brief sensation of Wilson’s hand on his jaw to incite a sudden burst of movement from him; Wes jerked violently, pitching up and forward in a panic, attempting in stupefied desperation to knock Wilson away, to shove himself out of Wilson’s reach and escape that touch.

Wilson let him go easily, regret flashing across his face along with panic. “I’m sorry, I didn’t--I’m sorry I forgot but please, you need to take this, you need to stop the bleeding!” Wilson held out a spider gland desperately, hand shaking.

Wes shook his head, reflexively--no, _no,_ , non--but it was a feeble gesture that weakened quickly, from pain if nothing else, and eventually just became a tired nod. He lay on the ground, his sides heaving from the sheer effort of attempting to take in the sharp, frigid air.

“Do you, uh, need help?” Wilson looked down at the gland dubiously. “If you opened your mouth I could sort of just squeeze it and--”

Oh God. Even in his current condition, Wes could not think of many choices worse than that. His stomach lurched, and he bit down on the inside of his mouth, unable to breathe but trying to keep whatever was left inside his body--well, _inside_. He shook his head more firmly, regretted it again, grabbed the gland from Wilson anyway and took a second to try and get his breathing steady before he put the gland in his mouth.

Wilson looked away as he sucked the disgusting fluid from the organ, although knowing the tactlessness of the man, it wasn’t out of a sense of propriety but out of sheer queasiness. He took the time to retrieve a handkerchief from his pocket, turn it over a few times to convince himself it was at least passably clean, and offer it to the mime. “Here, you’re all bloody.”

Wes was trying not to gag on the knowledge of what he’d just put in his mouth, but at Wilson’s words, he looked up and regarded the scientist tiredly. He actually managed to look amused, in a weary kind of way: really, Wilson? He was all bloody? He would not have noticed.

And somehow, mysteriously--he couldn’t _quite_ put his finger on it--it seemed incredibly trivial. 

That wasn’t quite the reaction Wilson had been hoping for, and he tried again. “You’ll feel better?” It was a question as much as an admonishment, but he didn’t put the handkerchief away.

Wes raised his eyebrows weakly at the interrogative in Wilson’s tone. 

“I mean… you always feel better when you’ve got your, uh, paint on. I’ve noticed, it makes you more cheerful--”

Wilson’s words hit him hard. Too hard--and all of a sudden it was too much. _Too much_. Wes rose suddenly, sharply, on unsteady legs. Wobbling, he pushed Wilson away before stopping, desperation entering his eyes for a second. Then covered them with a hand. His head hurt, exhaustion and anger and pain. He--his throat, his chest--his _head_ \--

_Ça fait mal._

Wilson didn’t get up, although he reached out for the mime before pulling his hand back. He clearly didn’t understand--how could he?--but he seemed to at least realize he had made it worse. After a brief, uneasy silence, he reached for his pack and started making a fire. “...we’ll stay here for tonight, all right? Just until you… it’s getting late, anyway.”

Wes didn’t answer. He stood, trembling--then started walking, his shaking legs barely carrying him into the dusky light. He didn’t stop, either. He kept going, through the trees and deeper into the woods. He’d make his own fire. Later. Farther. After.

After… after he could stop. After.

Wilson was calling after him, equal parts frustration and desperation, but Wes didn’t have the strength to argue, or even to listen.

At least, until the sound of his name broke into a strangled cry, and the other voice started speaking.

Wes stopped. His throat--ravaged, bloody, ruined--closed in fear.

Then he turned around, stumbling as he tried to run back. 

Shadows rooted him to the ground as soon as he did. They didn’t pull him down this time, but held him firmly rigid, upright and paralyzed, forcing him to look straight ahead. He strained against them, but they only tightened in response. He had a clear view through the trees of the fire and the figures beside it. Worse, he was close enough to hear now. Just close enough.

And the sideways, smirking glance to Wes from Maxwell as he held Wilson up by the collar told him that this had been intentional. 

“You looked a little lonely, that’s all, friend.” Wes didn’t hear whatever elicited that comment, had missed whatever Wilson had said, but he had an idea of where it was going. A sickening feeling--

Wilson tried to snap back but couldn’t force out the words, and Maxwell let him drop. He straightened his collar in disgust as he got to his feet. “What do you _really_ want? I don’t have the time for this.”

“I’ll give you that, pal.” Maxwell took a last drag off his cigar before tossing it into the fire, turning the smoke black and noxious. “Were you planning on this pathetic little thing getting you through the night? Or… another pathetic little thing, maybe?”

“I… what are you talking about?” Wilson looked genuinely puzzled, the redirection throwing him.

There was that glance again, that smirk, just brief enough that the scientist didn’t notice it. Just long enough that the mime did.

“Don’t play coy, sweetheart. I saw you two fags going at it this morning.”

The effect on Wilson was complex, but instantaneous. Shock and humiliation and shame all registered on his features, but when he spoke, gesturing at the same time, it was anger that came through. “I’m not--I’m not a f-- _I had a wife!_ ”

The words pierced Wes as though made of ice--a lancing spear of anguish and horror that tore through him; it was too violent to be shock, too crushing to be humiliation, too large to be hurt. He had a wife. _Il a été marié._

It was too big a blow to be digested at once.

Then he realised what he’d done, and like horror, it ripped through him from the inside. Wilson was married. A wife--that morning… Wilson must have been thinking of his wife--of someone he loved, a woman. He had not realised what a delusion he’d crafted until now--had not realised how much he had wanted it. How badly he wanted _him_. He’d _wanted_ Wilson. He had made a terrible mistake, and like grief, it cracked the soul. But unlike normal pain, the pain of living or the pain of dying, it had nowhere to go. 

Maxwell’s lit a fresh cigar, only looking sidelong at Wilson’s reddened face. He was watching Wes, feeding on them both, his grim delight more than evident as he exhaled smoke. “Oh? A marriage of convenience? Explains why you don’t mind.”

“Mind what? The dogs? The slow freezing to death? The...whatever those things are that tried to put my head on a pike? No, not at all! I’m thrilled! This has been an incredibly enjoyable experience for everyone involved!” Wilson was gesturing again, this time exaggeratedly, thoroughly fed up with late-night games.

Maxwell cast an arsenic-laced grin at the last. “Oh, very enjoyable, I agree.”

Wilson pressed his palms to his forehead, seething. “ _What_... are you _talking_ about, I don’t have the--what do you _want_?”

“Did he never tell you? Or do you just not listen?”

_Non--_

The scientist’s teeth were bared, his breath fast, but despite his rage, he flinched when Maxwell took him by the jaw.

“I sodomized your boyfriend, Mr. Higgsbury.”

Don’t tell him--don’t tell him about… _please_ \--

“You… what…?”

“I put him to the ground and took him like an animal. He didn’t say a word against it.”

No more. Il n’y à plus!

Wes could not beg, could not speak. He could not even feel himself begin to cry, realising it only when he felt the tears in his mouth, where they carried the taste of blood and hot makeup, cloying and bitter and earthy. Shame and desperation mixed in with mute terror, but he could beg only in his mind--

Please… please, _il n'y à plus_. 

_No more._

“...you’re lying.” It wasn’t quite a question, but it wasn’t a statement, either. He wasn’t confused as much as deliberately uncomprehending, unconsciously shaking his head.

“I fucked him on his hands and knees. Couldn’t even move by the end of it.” There were special emphasis points there, lost on Wilson, just to twist his claws a little deeper into Wes’ wounds. “He must have enjoyed it, haven’t you noticed how _romantic_ he gets when you remind him?”

“But I--how could I--” Maxwell’s grip on his jaw tightened and the connection was made, stark horror blossoming in his eyes. “No. No, I didn’t mean to--no--why would--how could you hurt him like--”

“He’s a set piece, pal. He’s worthless. After the trouble I went to to keep him locked out of sight, I would have thought that would be obvious. But you just can’t leave anything _alone_ , can you?” He shook Wilson by the collar, something taking over his smooth demeanour, sparking black across his face--

But he relaxed just as quickly, and his smile was almost genuine as he lowered Wilson to let him stand. Almost.

“Listen, friend. We both have things we want. Why don’t we make a deal?”

Wilson’s denial and distress had an effect on Wes--they were poor solace, but solace nonetheless. The fact that Wilson cared at all, even if just enough to raise protest, was almost a kind of sick relief. It was a disgusting, selfish feeling, and Wes hated himself for it even as it consoled him. But when Maxwell proposed a deal--

He tried to break his silence. He tried to warn him--

But could not. Wilson’s name was seized by a wrenching flutter of his chest and killed, reopening something in his torn larynx at the same time. Fresh pain bloomed violently above his lungs; he could not speak, nor even produce sound--whatever Maxwell had done, whatever had been destroyed inside of him… he was helpless to stop whatever happened.

“There’s nothing I want from you.” Wilson’s head was down, and his speech was strangely muffled, distant.

“Sure there is. I can get you anything you want. Well… close to anything. The things that count. Shelter, light, food--real food, not roots and berries.”

Wilson said nothing, hugging himself in the cold, the fire dwindling.

“Thought so. And all you have to do is get rid of him. Hell, you don’t have to do that much. Just get _away_ from him. It wouldn’t even be hard. He left you first, didn’t he? So go in the other direction. Start running now and the snow will cover your tracks.”

Again, he didn’t respond, didn’t move.

“Afraid he’ll cry? Oh, don’t worry. He’ll just think something crept up on you and finished you off.” Maxwell grinned, the last of the fire turning it into a warped rictus, and he looked directly at Wes. “He’d never have to know.”

When he got no further protest, Maxwell shrugged expansively, discarded the butt of his cigar. “Think about it. You’ve got all the time in the world.”

With that, he was gone.

Wilson stood stock-still, the only visible movement his clothes rustling in the icy wind.

Then, in a flurry of frantic motion, he snatched up his pack, lit a torch from the fire, and ran off into the woods.


	3. Fear Death By Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It just gets worse and worse the farther we go." -- Watership Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FROM RAILE: "Well, that happened."
> 
> FROM DELCAT: Del’s original observation during the process was “This thing is oscillating in and out of Hug City limits like an eighteen-wheeler doing donuts”. He now has no words, so we’ll just go with that. Wilson no. Stop.

Wes crawled towards the fire, dragging himself slowly to the safety of light and warmth. He was weak, exhausted, and his breath rattled, broken and painful. It was worse when he inhaled, but crackling and slightly hot when he exhaled. His white gloves offered a uselessly thin layer of protection between his hands and the frozen earth, the biting cold of snow; soon they were not white at all but dark with dirt and ice and labour.

Once he reached his goal, he collapsed, lying half-prone, half-curled next to the dying flame. He had reached a point of shock and defeat that numbed him to his own body; the raw pain of hunger, the burn of dehydration, the piercing tear and crushing ache in his chest were all remote to his senses, distanced by the flickering of darkness and shapes along the edges of his vision and the gulf of emptiness that had opened like a chasm in the back of his brain. He shut his eyes tightly. There were growls--deep, rumbling groans of earth or shadow or perhaps his stomach, but he did not hear them. Not in any meaningful way. It could have been a relief--could have, had it only been able to numb the rest of him too. The wheezing ache of breathing was distant somehow, the taste of tears and blood and earth simultaneously stark and disparate.

Wilson was long gone. Wes had watched in helpless silence as the scientist lit his torch and fled, the faint glow of Wilson’s torch swiftly swallowed by the darkness. And as the light had been consumed, so too had Wes. Not by the night but by agony, by a wracking despair made all the more bitter by the fact that Maxwell did not reappear. And Wes knew why.

Maxwell didn’t need to.

He had Wilson in hand--he’d made his point and struck his deal. And Wilson--Wilson, who did not deserve the backlash of Wes’ own stupidity, who had his own life back home, who was a normal, decent man with nothing to hide--had accepted. And why wouldn't he? It sounded good--if Wes had not known what he'd known, if he weren't who he was, he would have been tempted too. And that was the worst part.

Wilson could not have known that taking Maxwell’s terms was a terrible mistake. How could he have? Wilson was such an honest person. Wes knew he'd been described as simple, easy to understand, but Wilson was linear--the kind of person that went from hypothesis to conclusion in a straight line, unerring and guileless. He’d made Wilson a target--and Wilson surely knew it too.

He lay, silent and shivering, on the wet ground next to the fire, listening to the echoing chimes of the haunted air and growls of the angry night.

It was some minutes before he noticed that there was something by the fire. A glint of stone, a smooth edge; eventually, its winking light became apparent--not as a watching eye or an encroaching shadow repeatedly flinching from the fire, but as a real, concrete object, half-covered by the fire’s bed of mud.

He moved, finally, pulling himself up partially to reach over the fire--he nearly burned himself, but tried again and this time put his hand around the winking light.

He realised immediately what it was.

Wilson’s razor.

Wes picked it up, pulling it out of the mud, the crude handle worn from regular use. He remembered making it for Wilson, remembered hiding it behind his back and then surprising the scientist with it--remembered how, after Wilson actually began using it, he'd gone into a long-winded speech about the proper grooming habits of a gentleman, and then finally let his shoulders drop, shrugged, and admitted it made him feel better.

_I’ve noticed, it makes you more cheerful--_

And then he remembered. He remembered how easy it had been; how easy it _could be_ \--for _everyone_. He didn’t have rope, but he didn’t need it. He had the razor.

He hadn’t been actively religious in a while--even before… Before. Stepping foot into a church had felt uneasy once he’d realized he was… different. And in the States… the churches were different. But some things stayed with him--memories of mass and confessionals, incense and the taste of the Eucharist. Suicide was the worst sin, the unforgivable sin. He’d be cast into Hell.

But wasn’t he headed there anyway?

And could he even reach Hell from here?

Wasn't he already there?

\--then something was barging into the stand of trees, crashing through the underbrush, and maybe he wouldn’t have to finish it, maybe Maxwell had sent something to do it for him and he wouldn’t even have the last say--

“Wes--Wes I--oh, you found--I didn’t know I’d dropped that, thank you.”

And Wilson was taking the razor from his hand, folding it and pocketing it absentmindedly.

At first he didn’t realise Wilson was real, was anything at all--then the razor was out of his hand, Wilson talking, and Wes moved to grab it back, half-reflex and half want, but he missed; Wilson was already pocketing it without noticing Wes’ attempt. He let his hand drop, disoriented and slightly dazed, unable to completely process what was happening--let alone believe it. _What--_

Wilson was bedraggled, panting, and one arm was swollen from bee stings. He knelt by Wes and started rummaging through this backpack as he caught his breath.

“Are you feeling any better? I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you got back, we don’t have any food--or, I mean… food that you can…” He swallowed awkwardly. “Here.” He held out a chunk of honeycomb.

Wes stared at him.

“We can do better later, I think I can turn some of that jerky into broth, but this should do for tonight. I got some more silk, and some spider thingies, and… I…” He slowed a little, pulled something from the pack with great care. “I, well… I saw these earlier and I thought…”

It was a flower garland, the kind they’d become almost too accustomed to making, but rather than the usual hasty, off-key arrangement of hues, it was peppermint-coloured, alternating red and white. 

“... just thought… they reminded me of--I mean, it’s all you wear, so I thought you’d like the colours. That’s… that’s all.”

He laid it carefully on Wes’ head, the scent covering him, soothing him. It was a bit large, not quite fitting the slender mime’s brow, and the edges of its petals hung over his eyes.

“There. Better, right? And it looks… it looks nice on…” Wilson trailed off. He wasn’t actually looking at Wes, instead staring at the ground, and as Wes followed his gaze he saw there were tiny puncture wounds in the snow. He was…

Wilson was crying.

Wes was still confused, still disoriented, and for a moment he stared dumbly at the scientist's bowed head. Then, slowly, he raised a gloved hand--a hand covered in mud and blood, gloves stained with tears and makeup--and reached out, cautiously testing reality to touch Wilson's head. It was real. Still shaking, Wes lay his hand gingerly atop Wilson’s own.

Wilson’s hand grasped his, then snaked up his arm, and he was embracing Wes suddenly, his face pressed to his neck, hugging him tightly enough to hurt.

“I… I know you don’t like to talk but you can… you could have come to me, you… you didn’t have to--you should have--” He clung still tighter, voice strained with worry and something approaching anguish. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

Wes didn't have an answer. He startled at the first second of embrace, stiffening reflexively--then loosened, collapsing into it. The reality of Wilson’s presence, the warmth of his body, the firmness of the man’s frame--the lucid stabbing pain that rooted him in reality against his own will. There were a lot of reasons he hadn't told Wilson--shame, pride, denial--but he lasted only a second more before burying his face in Wilson’s shoulder, pressing his face into the curve of the man’s bony neck. In his haste, however, Wilson had inadvertently pinned Wes’ arms to his sides; upon feeling the mime move, he loosened his grip slightly and after another second or two, Wes freed his arms--then, tentatively, put them around Wilson’s neck, a position he was only able to maintain for a couple of seconds. Then embarrassment took over and he pulled back, shaking his head.

Wilson kept his hands on Wes’ arms, the only part of him that wasn’t soothingly warm--his fingertips were red and slightly bloody, and Wes realized he must have dug in the snow for the flowers. His speech was halting, reluctant, but he pushed the words out. “Maxwell… told me that he… hurt you.” It was a question, one he obviously wanted denied, one he obviously knew the answer to.

Wes met Wilson’s stare, then started to shake his head before he stopped and pulled away, getting to his feet.

“Oh God.” Wilson rose, following him almost unconsciously. “But… why? Did you really want…” He stopped himself, some tiny shred of self-control holding him back, but the fullness of the question hung in the air. Wes stared at him somewhat uncertainly, as though waiting for the rest of the sentence, and Wilson shook his own head in response, looking ashamed. “I’m sorry, of course you wouldn’t… Wes, he’s a monster, I don’t…” He encroached on Wes again, pulling him close, trembling. “...I don’t understand…”

Wes floundered in another moment of paralysis, staring blankly out over the snow in confusion. Then Wilson’s meaning dawned on him and he flushed, hot with shame and anger and disbelief. He pulled away, shoving Wilson back--and slapped him.

Hard.

His hand cracked across the scientist’s face, sending him staggering back, crying out hoarsely from the explosion of pain. Wes almost slapped him again, but stopped--his rage gave way under the tide of exhaustion and pain, his horrified incredulity crumbling into a pathetic slurry of emotions; even if he’d had voice, there would not have been words--he couldn't--

“ _I know I’m saying it wrong!_ ”

Wilson clutched the bruise growing on his cheek, eyes closed, shoulders shaking. Usually his speech was distracted, falling back and forward and sideways on tangents, but there was only terse conviction there now.

“I _know_ I’m saying it wrong! I know I’m _always_ saying it wrong! I _know_ why I lose friends! I _know_ why I lost my wife! I _know_ why I’m alone! I--I just--”

Wilson’s strength faltered as quickly as it’d erupted, and he slumped to his knees, hands at his sides, staring into the fire.

“...I just want to have been there to stop it.”

Wes narrowed his eyes at the outburst’s onset, but as Wilson continued, his expression didn’t change. The last of it was like a mortar drop, and the silence stretched out, eerie and tense; finally, he reached up and removed the garland of sweet-smelling flowers. He took a step forward, dropping the red-and-white crown at Wilson's feet.

Wilson flinched, but didn’t dare look up. “If… if you want me to go, I’ll go.”

Wes shook his head, then reached out to take the garland again, holding it in both hands before leaning forward to place it gently on Wilson’s head--it was a little precarious, given the man’s hair, but it stayed.

He looked up, surprised, eyes red, and then gave Wes a very tiny, very tired lopsided smile. It was fleeting, and he exhaled a shaky breath, but his hand found the other man’s, held it tentatively.

“Show me what I need to do, and… and I’ll do it. We’ll get you healed up. We can’t not get you healed up, I haven’t even… I mean… I thought someday you might… you know, let me hear your voice…” His cheeks reddened at the last--saying it wrong again--but he let it stand.

Wes hesitated, then slipped his fingers between Wilson’s, nesting their hands together tightly.

Wilson was quiet as Wes’ fingers slowly warmed his, pink-faced and thoughtful.

“Wes?”

Wes glanced at him somewhat reluctantly.

“Do you… happen to see a tooth anywhere? I, uh. Appear to be missing one.”

Wes paused--then he realised what Wilson meant, and experienced a brief, conflicting moment of simultaneous satisfaction and exasperation. He was kind of surprised it had taken Wilson this long to notice--or had he just not said anything?

He shrugged slightly, though only somewhat apologetically.

“I don’t think I swallowed--oh, wait, right here. Silly of me.”

The scientist’s hand left Wes’ as he picked up the lost tooth from by the fire and began cementing it back into place with spider-salve. The process was rote, and sadly telling of Wilson’s frequent ill-advised ventures. Wes distinctly remembered Wilson's poorly planned attempt to profit from a battle between some fishmen and some tentacles, and showed no reaction.

“Wah yah mah’d?”

It was also rote for Wilson not to consider whether or not he was coherent while talking. Mute or no, the look of absolute incomprehension on Wes’ face spoke volumes.

“Oh--” He removed his hand from his mouth, flustered, and tested the tooth with his tongue before resuming. “I asked if you were married. Or… a girlfriend, I suppose?”

The clarity did not much improve the quality of Wes’ stare--it merely changed it, from nonplussed to strange and blank.

Wes knew that Wilson was being guileless--and that may very well have saved him. From someone else, he might have taken it unkindly, but…

The mime shut his eyes and shook his head; then he turned his face away, resigned and tired.

Wilson traced a pattern in the snow with one fingertip, distracted. “I was just thinking… I didn’t mean to say… I apologize for my outburst, it was… unprofessional.”

Wes didn’t answer, gesturally or otherwise. He didn’t really have anything to ‘say.’ Even with a voice, these were not topics of normal conversation for him--or topics of conversation at all. It had been generally accepted by his mates that he was permanently a bachelor, that he favoured the single life, that he was a simple person who preferred to live life around simple things. And he did. He should have kept it that way. Many of his coworkers were the same, though, at least in terms of marital desires, so it was never too closely scrutinised, and no one ever made it an issue. And now _Wilson_ was asking--

“It didn’t last long. She… I talk too much, apparently.” He smiled blankly into the fire.

Wes sat quietly, unable to answer and unwilling to try and formulate a response. He was a little afraid to, honestly; he was sympathetic, but he could not relate--and he knew Wilson had no idea what he’d seen and heard just a few short hours ago. And, too, it was unusual for Wilson to talk much about… well, anything of substance, much less things Before, but there was some familiarity to his melancholy. For all his seemingly boundless enthusiasm, there were times when the man got very tired and withdrawn. It rarely lasted long, but it was an uncomfortable grounding of his light-spirited company.

The scientist shook himself out of the brooding reverie, tried a smile. “Are you feeling better? You’re not breathing so hard.”

Wes blinked, then shrugged again--better was kind of relative, and he was not really inclined to commit to the idea right now. His breathing was quieter, but shaky and shallow; for all the force of the slap to Wilson’s face, for Wes it was as though a bomb had gone off in his own chest. His breath tasted like blood and bile on the exhale.

“You need… we both need rest.” He hesitated, but gave up and held out the handkerchief again.

Wes regarded the handkerchief somewhat witheringly--they'd been through this--but he didn’t refuse it, stripping off his filthy gloves to take it from Wilson’s hands. Removing his makeup was a lot harder than usual, though--tears had left streaks through it, mud had gotten onto his face somewhere, cakes of salt and blood had dried hard and painful against his swollen skin. He had to soak the cloth in snow to get anywhere, and twice had to stop to rest. Even cleaning the paint from his face was more than he could handle.

As he raised his hand the third time, Wilson laid his arm on it, and this time it was the scientist questioning mutely. Wes stopped, looking at him--he was exhausted, spent to the point of sorrow, but still he hesitated a moment before relinquishing the cloth wearily.

“Hold still…” He had definitely learned his lesson about taking Wes’ face in his hand, instead gently touching his shoulder to move him one way or the other, and he was almost absurdly delicate with the handkerchief. His face creased in concentration normally reserved for developing new equipment as he cleared the blood from under the mime’s eyes, but he smiled as he finished. “There. Good as new.”

Somehow Wes doubted that much, but he managed a tired, grateful smile--a sincere one, though fleeting. He was especially appreciative of Wilson’s avoidance of his face in favour of his shoulders--knowing why Wilson did it only lessened the relief of it by a small margin. Even then, enduring it was about all he could take--no sooner had Wilson released him than he closed his eyes, on the edge of a merciful state of sleep.

“Wes--hold on--” And Wilson was gathering him into his arms, letting him lean against his chest. Wes jerked awake, and Wilson stilled him quickly, holding him tightly. “Shh--it’s all right, I’m only--you can’t sleep flat with that cough, it’ll make it worse.” Wes made another attempt to push Wilson away, but then gave in--he was hurting too much to put up any real resistance. Coupled with his fatigue--bone deep and beyond, a complete draining of mind and body--it was not long before he quieted, his head resting against Wilson’s bony shoulder.

Wilson nestled up against the backpack, rubbing Wes’ back absently. He had fallen asleep upright while working enough times that it didn’t bother him, and the shared warmth was almost as much a concern as Wes’ throat. His body was alarmingly cold, and Wilson wasn’t sure he’d even noticed how hard he’d been shivering.

He closed his eyes, holding Wes against him, stroking life back into his limp body as he drifted off.

He’d be better by the morning.


	4. Oh Keep the Dog Far Hence, That's Friend to Men (4a)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That corpse you planted last year in your garden,   
> Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?   
> Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FROM RAILE: 
> 
> Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,  
> A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,   
> I had not thought death had undone so many.
> 
> FROM DELCAT: 
> 
> Who shot the arrow in your throat  
> Who missed the crimson apple  
> And there is discord in the garden tonight

Wes wasn’t better by the morning. Not by much, at least. Actually, he might be…

Wilson stopped the thought before it could fully form. Wes couldn’t be worse. He wouldn’t allow it.

It had been a long night, without much sleep on the scientist’s end. Wes’ cough woke him periodically, and he would sit uncomfortably in the dark listening to him, afraid each time his breath paused that it wouldn’t start again. They’d been in rough scrapes--their _lives_ were rough scrapes now, collectively--but he’d never seen him in such bad shape. If anything, Wes was usually the one doing the patching up.

In retrospect, he probably hadn’t properly expressed how much he appreciated that.

He shook his head. Why was he thinking in retrospect? He’d fix this. It was what he did. He fixed things. He could fix anything. He could…

Wilson closed his eyes.

_”I sodomized your boyfriend, Mr. Higgsbury.”_

There were some things that couldn’t be fixed.

Maxwell’s words hadn’t stopped playing in his head once, from the time he went to make the garland to the late-night intervals of consciousness to now, with the sun turning distant trees muted, dusty red. It was a poisonous loop, a bad tooth he couldn’t stop pressing his tongue to.

How could Maxwell--how could anyone hurt someone like that? _Why?_

And why hadn’t he _known_?

It was his job to know things. Know things and fix things and make them better than before. And it wasn’t any good at all if it wasn’t good here.

Wes tensed in his arms, started coughing again, and Wilson rubbed his back, looking down. His vest was layered with blood now, stained, drying, fresh. He still wasn’t sure what had happened, what had been done, but the results were brutal. He wiped blood from Wes’ lips carefully, then stopped and looked at his fingertips.

_“Boyfriend.”_

The loop stopped on that occasionally, and it was… distracting.

Wilson cared _about_ Wes, certainly. He cared a great deal. He was accustomed to being alone, but there was solitude and there was isolation. By the time he found Wes and freed him, he was losing his mind. The difference it made to have someone to talk to, even if he didn’t exactly talk back… and that was to make no mention of the ways life had improved. Two people could sleep through the night if one of them watched the fire, and two people could survive the worst of Maxwell’s monsters if they worked together to fight them.

Wilson cared about Wes.

But did he care _for_ Wes?

He was at a loss. Wilson considered himself… well, he had to admit that “normal” wasn’t the best word in his case, but normal in terms of enjoyable company. Thinking back, maybe that company hadn’t been so enjoyable, but he had always assumed it was from his own social failings.

And then there had been the… encounter, the previous morning, and it had been…

The scientist hissed softly through his teeth, trying to put it out of his mind. No good repeating the same problem. But it had just been… a problem, hadn’t it? Wes had seen him struggling and taken sympathy. They were in the same boat, it wasn’t surprising.

On the other hand…

Wilson looked down at Wes balefully. It was strange to see him without his facepaint at this point, and he found himself focusing on his lips. The blood was bright where there was usually darkness, but the usual associations of light and dark were inverted, flipped like everything else here was.

What had happened had… happened. It could mean anything. How could Wilson know what he felt?

Maybe if…

Wes entered another jagged coughing fit, this one harder, more violent--bad enough to wake him, in fact, with a blinding rush of pain; the disorientation of his awakening was exacerbated by the steady loss of blood overnight, and he jerked, grabbing Wilson by the vest in an unconscious attempt at physical stability. It did not work terribly well.

“H-hold on--” Wilson pulled him upright, onto his shoulder, face going deep red. What had he been thinking? No, what--what _had_ he been thinking? He pushed it away quickly, rubbing Wes’ lower back. “Breathe. Wes, breathe.”

But he couldn’t--and being hauled up to Wilson’s shoulder did not help. In fact, it made things worse; a sudden hitch of nausea hit Wes like a sideways punch and his world pitched violently, a tilting spiral of vertigo that threw him from Wilson’s arms--and just as well, for seconds later, he retched, vomiting blood. A lot of it.

It soaked into the soil and snow, tasting of bile and bitterness, and it was thick and dark--some of it bright and red, but most of it was dark, almost black. He retched again, threw up again, and as he dropped to his knees it was only Wilson gripping him from behind that kept him from pitching forward into the snow. Then a third time, but weaker, and then he collapsed back against Wilson, his chest heaving, his lungs burning for air and throat burning for pain.

“Wes--! Dear God…” Wilson tried to angle his neck to see his face, his own gone pale.

Wes shook his head, putting up a hand while he struggled to catch his breath. He felt like hell--no, that wasn’t really right. His insides felt like hell. Inside, it _was_ hell. But his body--the parts of him that touched the air, that moved with his limbs and contained the hell inside… felt more or less fine. He knew it hurt to breathe, that swallowing was worse, that coughing created a veritable eruption of pain in places he had not known he could have feeling--horrible, lancing, obliterating pain that felt as though it would crush his chest and tear his throat apart. But coughing was inescapable--and after every white burst of pain, there was that brief, fleeting moment of crystalline relief before the tortuous offensive of his insides began to open up again to the raw aches and sharp needles of before.

“Are… are you sure? Let me look at you.” Wilson almost touched his jaw, caught himself with a slight shudder, touched his shoulder instead. Wes caught Wilson’s movement out of the corner of his eye, but at the touch to his shoulder, he turned, looking somewhat wearily at the scientist. He was almost wearier of Wilson’s concern--the sheer intensity of it, if nothing else, overwhelming and constant--than he was of the pain. But that was a pretty big almost--he’d need to have been in somewhat less persistent agony for it to be true.

Wilson was silent, nervousness beyond what Wes expected playing in his eyes, but he managed a bland smile. “...I’m sorry, you… it was… surprising.”

Wes hesitated, then offered a wan smile--wan but grateful; two ineffective smiles met for a moment before Wilson loosened his grip, certain Wes wouldn’t fall this time. He coughed himself, cheeks inexplicably pink.

“Y-you should really try to eat something. I still have that honey, I think.”

Wes was given no time to puzzle at Wilson’s insecurities; his gaze dropped to the angry-looking stings on the man’s arm, which looked little better in the morning light. He was hungry. Desperately, ravenously hungry, which he realised now in the wake of his voided stomach. But--

The idea of swallowing anything, let alone something sticky… his nervousness showed on his face, and Wilson jumped in at his doubt.

“It, it’d help your throat. I could try to make tea, or break it down with some snow, if that’d be easier?”

Wes hesitated, still visibly conflicted, but he shook his head at the tea, gesturing briefly to the snow around them instead. The cold might help--numbing, maybe. He hoped. He gestured to Wilson with one hand, trying to get the man to give the honeycomb to him while he elaborately mimed the act of mixing and melting over the fire. It was unsteady at best--the kind of performance an amateur might have attempted--but in his weakened, poorly state, it was the best he could make out. 

Wilson had his own hesitations, but he gave in and handed over the honey, although he didn’t stop watching Wes like a nervous dog.

It was a little unsettling, actually.

Wes made out as best he could, though. They were short on firesafe containers, but a bowl had been carved out of stone at one point, and Wes used that to heat the cleanest snow in arm’s reach, producing water--cool water, into which he stirred the honey with a twig. It was not quite thin--more viscous than anything, honestly, but drinkable. He took it slowly, trying to do as little harm swallowing as possible. It was a tedious and painful process.

“Any good?”

Wes wasn’t sure how to answer that. The concoction itself tasted slightly sweet, in a peculiar, cloyingly smoky way, but set against the faint but ever-present sour tang of old blood. He frowned into the bowl as though trying to decide.

“You should rest up for the day. I’ll bring what we need from camp.”

Wes looked up, brows knitting quickly, and he opened his mouth in protest--not to speak, but in gesture of it; he closed it again sharply, the corners of his mouth turning down to show his displeasure with Wilson’s suggestion. He could not, however, manage to get up--he didn’t even try. Breathing was laborious--which made it fairly clear that he was not going very far today. He made another face of frustration, but conceded the issue at length with a gesture of his left hand.

Wilson shrugged helplessly. “And… you’re sure you’ll be all right in the meantime?”

Even lurching against the abyss, Wes wondered when he’d been transformed from a grown man to a baby bird.

“I don’t mean to--dammit Wes, it’s just you _look_ \--” He cut himself short, but it was a bit too much.

Look _what?_ Wes reached into his pack dizzily, fishing out his compact with clumsy hands. 

“Wes--Wes, don’t--” He reached out to stop him, grabbing his wrist.

Which didn’t much help, as Wes had two hands. But when he opened the compact, he only caught a brief glimpse of Wilson’s desperate, unreadable expression before the scientist knocked it from his hand, twisting Wes around so they were face to face.

“Wes--just--”

Wilson cut himself off, letting the words drop, and kissed him.

It was… awful, really, awkward and inexperienced and hard enough to sting Wes’ chapped lips, and it lasted only a moment before Wilson released him, breathing fast, cheeks pink. But in that moment…

“I...I, uh...I’m sorry, I should have--I didn’t--want to--oh God I am a fag.” Wilson’s voice was drawn tight, erratic, and the last came out in a self-addressed daze.

Wes was too shocked to react appropriately--he’d dropped his makeup completely, eyes wide with something that began as horror and slowly bloomed into something brighter and warmer and infinitely more confused; Wilson released him then and he sat, mouth slightly open, still in mild shock as the scientist rambled on.

“I mean--I don’t mean _you’re_ a--oh God I’m sorry I--I know you’re not attracted to-- _I’m_ not--well actually I guess I _am_ attracted to--but I know you--I just--wanted to--test a theory I should _not_ have gotten you involved Wes please don’t be upset--”

Wes clamped his entire hand over Wilson’s mouth, effectively silencing him. After a second had passed--confirming that Wilson was, indeed, quieted--he leaned up, kissing him gently on the forehead, just underneath the crown of sweet-smelling flowers across his brow.

Wilson’s skin turned hot under his hand, blood pulsing beneath his fingertips, and his eyes were wide, confused, but… strangely hopeful.

Wes regarded Wilson carefully. He had not forgotten Wilson’s slight last night, but he had also not forgotten the events of the morning. He realised with strange clarity that this was his choice. He could decide where this went. After a few seconds, he removed his hand from Wilson’s mouth pensively. 

“Uh. ...you too?” His smile was frozen, genuine but dripping nervousness. “I--just said that, I’m sorry, if you want to hit me again I would entirely understand, actually you should probably just--”

Wes ignored Wilson, albeit briefly--he was afraid of Maxwell. It would have been a lie to say he was not. And he was afraid--afraid for himself, afraid for Wilson. But even more than he feared Maxwell, he hated him. And he knew that Maxwell hated seeing him happy. He knew that’s what Maxwell saw--that Maxwell saw someone happy, maybe it wasn’t even just Wes, although he suspected it was--and somehow he couldn’t stand it. Maybe he just couldn’t stand Wes. But Wilson was still talking--

And Wes hated Maxwell more than he feared him. 

He leaned in again, kissing Wilson on the lips.

Wilson was caught mid-word, and it hitched as a warm breath over Wes’ skin. He pressed back uncertainly, grateful when Wes took over; the sound he made when Wes’ tongue passed over his lips was surprised, but not unpleasantly so. Wilson’s hand roamed helplessly for a moment before settling on the other man’s back, pulling him just slightly closer. The kiss was short, but it tasted like honey and blood--

Then it was too much and Wes broke off, coughing that same blood onto Wilson’s neck and shoulder.

Wilson held him while he shook, then pulled back carefully, colour not quite gone from his face but paling. “Wes, you… you’re sick, you’re burning up. I didn’t want to worry y… that was really--I mean--never mind that, sorry, you--you’re sick.” It was a muddle of words, half concern and half dazed giddiness. Wes was only half-listening; he could see, through bleary eyes, how much blood--old and new--he’d put out onto Wilson’s vest. It--it hadn’t--he could not quite believe it was all his; he did not. He stared at the spattered gore in a vague, uncomprehending way, breathing hard and short and shallow--

“...you’re _really_ sick.” The statement was laboured, Wilson admitting it to himself as much to Wes, and whatever heat had been generated by the kiss burned out. Wes glanced up, simultaneously desperate and questioning--but he shook his head, denial cutting through and immediately dictating his response. He’d be fine. Wounds healed--he just needed time. It would be slow and painful--but he’d recover.

Wilson bit his lip and didn’t respond.

Wes stared up at him, experiencing a chill of groggy apprehension--nearing dread. 

Wilson slowly picked up Wes’ compact and held it out to him, looking away.

Wes stared into the mirror. 

Wilson still wasn’t looking at him, and the bottom dropped out of the world. Semi-coherence was punctured, just briefly, by a sweep of despair. He had not realised that deep black and purple bruises had bloomed on his neck and chest, that the thin, dark circles under his eyes had deepened, that his lips were dry and cracked from dehydration and the repeated wetting and drying of blood on his skin. 

“... I didn’t want you to worry… but… Wes, this is… really bad.”

Wes didn’t respond--he just stared at the mirror. The pallid wreckage of his own reflection stared back; in his own faltering vision, his eyes became dry black holes. But he was fine. He knew from experience that you usually felt worse than you really were. Wounds looked worse than they were. So it… it was just cosmetic. He’d get better. Right? 

“I can get you fixed up, I--I’m sure I can get you fixed up, but Wes, you have to stop _fighting_. You’re making it worse. You need to rest, you need to let me take care of y--let me take care of this. _Please let me take care of this._ ”

Wes was shaking as he closed the compact, his hands trembling, his eyes dark. Making it worse? Distress shifted to betrayal, quiet but hot--and then something like anger, not quite rage but not yet despair. Stop fighting? What else would he do _but_ fight it? Wilson--what did he want him to do? Give up--?!

“Wes…” Wilson laid a hand on each shoulder, the tremor evident through the thin fabric of Wes’ shirt, and his voice was a notch short of begging. “ _Please._ ”

And he was pushing him back carefully, laying him by the fire.

Wes grabbed Wilson’s arm, trying to pull him off, and he shoved the scientist weakly--desperately--but the effort threw him into another spasm of coughing, choking on his own blood and sputum, his face twisting in pain; he was forced into laying on the cold, damp ground, head turning sideways as he tried to free himself, to clear his lungs and throat--

He was lifted again, hastily, then let down again with his head rested on something relatively soft--the backpack, maybe--and suddenly it was a little easier to breathe. Just a little, but enough. He took the chance he was given to fill his lungs, feverishly gasping as much sharp, cold air as he could. He was still in a fog of anger, of betrayal and dismay, but it was confused now, and his body, so starved for a clear breath, took over instead, occupying his mind with a giddy kind of indignation and relief.

“Just… lie still, keep still. Please. Rest if you can, you didn’t… you haven’t slept w… you need rest.” Wilson fed grass to the flames, the heat rising up just enough to comfort without becoming dangerous. “I need to get supplies. You’ll be safe here, I won’t be gone long.”

Wes did not attempt to get up, though it was more from preoccupation as from any form of willing compliance; the influx of oxygen, of able breathing, had come with a cost. The world had pitched out from under him, throwing him into a state of plunging vertigo. He shut his eyes tightly against the sudden drop--combined with the hot, radiating pain flaring in his chest and throat, he didn’t even notice Wilson’s departure.

\----

It was the smell that woke him--the smell of cooking meat, which threaded thinly, almost tauntingly into a form a reality, rolling through his unconsciousness and dragging him back into pain. There was movement close by, a presence next to him, laying a hand on his chest; no, a weight, with claws pressing deep, cold tendrils into his nerves--the monster--

It--no, _Maxwell--_

“Wes--it’s me, it’s just me--” And the crushing weight fled, the talons evaporating instantly as Wilson’s voice cut through--Wes took a steep, empty breath, eyes cracking open deliriously to see Wilson hastily withdrawing his hand. His eyes were darker than usual, but he managed a small, lopsided smile. “You, uh, look better. ...a little. I’m sorry I startled you. Here, I brought food. It’s just broth, but it’s… something.”

It took Wes an unusually long amount of time to sort through the words well enough to find meaning--and even then, he sensed he only had a vague understanding of what Wilson had just said. He was so grateful for the sight of the scientist, however--for the _relief_ Wilson’s banishment of whatever--whoever--had been making an attempt on him that--

A warm bowl was pressed into his hands, held for a moment to steady it in them.

“Don’t...go too fast, or you might be sick again, but try, all right?” Wilson moved again, to the other side of the fire. “I-I’ll save the meat for later, you might be able to handle it by tonight.”

Wes held the broth somewhat clumsily, but he managed to bring it to his lips. It tasted faintly of meat--of beefalo, actually, their smell inescapable even in flavour, but there was also a trace sweetness to it, strong enough for Wes to taste even through the red and yellow rot. Once he had it in his mouth, though, it was almost overwhelming--nausea and hunger, a ravenousness that possessed him at the taste of food, even a broth. He drank desperately, greedily--too fast, his throat hitched, sealing up against the heat and he began to cough, choking on blood and broth--

\--and Wilson was taking it away, or at least keeping it from him, blocking his mouth with one hand. “Slow _down_ \--” He sighed nervously. “Just… hold still.”

Wilson held the bowl to his lips, tipping it just gently. Wes leaned to it, drinking as much as Wilson would let him and swallowing quickly, his desperation for sustenance stronger than his aversion to pain.

“Heh…” Wilson’s smile was more genuine this time, pleased despite his exhaustion. “I’m, uh, glad you like it. Any better?”

Wes nodded--weakly, but sincerely. 

“Do you think you could, uh, handle any more? It’d… be a good idea, but you shouldn’t push yourself.”

Wes wanted more--he really did. But the broth already in his stomach--his gut twisted unpleasantly, and opened his mouth, about to shake his head, when he stopped. He could see, by the fire, a large stone… pot? He regarded it quizzically--but next to it was a pile of meat, bundled crudely with grass rope. 

“I, uh…” Wilson followed his gaze. “...went overboard on the beefalo. It’ll, uh, keep us, um… provided for, for a bit, right?” Wes’ brows peaked wearily, a sympathetic form of exasperation before his eyes drifted shut again--and slept.

\--

The fire was too high and too low in turns, low enough now that it pulled him out from under his abyss. Wilson’s hand caressed his shoulder gently as he shivered, then settled in his hair, stroking it. The cool leather was as a balm, a respite from the feverish chill taxing his already-spent nerves and body; finally, one eye cracked open, miserably struggling to discern nightmare from shadow.

Wilson laid a gloved hand across his eyes, cooling the one place where the heat felt like too much, and he made a soft, soothing noise deep in his throat. Wes shuddered slightly at the touch, but under it he felt something release and he relaxed. 

“Good boy.”

He kissed him and it was suddenly very _wrong_ \--

_**No**_ \--

Wes jerked upright, his hands closing around Maxwell’s neck, tightening--

Wilson--truly Wilson, outlined by scent and feel if not by Wes’ smudgy sight--scrabbled at his hands, unable to loosen adrenaline-tightened fingers. Wes could feel him trying to speak, the panicked movement of his adam’s apple. He stopped, confused, though he did not let go--Wilson had to pry his fingers off as Wes’ eyes searched his emptily.

Wilson kept his hand over his throat, coughing, and he… he was scared, he was trying to hide it but it bled into the air around him. Scared of Wes? Maxwell? What else was there to see?

He swallowed roughly. “...you were having a nightmare.”

Wes wasn’t looking at Wilson any more--he looked lost, desperately so, his eyes glazed as he watched another crawling horror slither its hollow-eyed bulk along the edges of camp, all twisted tendrils and scuttling, shadowy limbs; he didn’t understand how Wilson could not see them. 

“...you’re still having a nightmare…” Wilson’s voice was tired but understanding, a breath of dark flowers briefly illuminated around him. He slowly, cautiously put his arms around Wes. “Close your eyes. Close your eyes and they’ll go away.”

Wes couldn’t close his eyes. He shivered in Wilson’s arms; he couldn’t--he _couldn’t_ \--he couldn’t _close them_.

He knew that as long as his eyes were open, they’d keep watching--long, distorted shapes with narrow stares and obsidian claws. But if he closed them--

If he--

Wilson’s grip tightened as Wes’ body started spasming in it, exhaustion disappearing. “Wes--Wes you’re not--Wes, _breathe_!”

The mounting pressure from his inability to do just that was painting black into Wes’ vision, a sound like a distant roar in the back of his brain. Infection throbbed hot in his chest, closing and drowning his throat, rotting him from the inside. Now he could hardly pass breath into his lungs, a constant wracking agony suffusing his body. Wilson was saying something, over and over and over again, but Wes couldn’t hear it over the ringing in his ears, and suddenly a hand--Wilson’s hand, Maxwell’s hand--was buried in his hair, yanking his head back roughly, and there was the glint of a blade.

Wes panicked, lashing out--

\--and there was blood. Blood everywhere, in his eyes, his face, a sharp spray that barely made the hand falter, pulled a vicious howl from Maxwell’s throat. Wes twisted, struggling to escape his grasp--no, _no_ \--

Maxwell pulled his hair again, harder, and the other hand was at his jaw, that sickening caress forcing his head back--

\--and he could breathe again, just barely, the slightest thread of air pulled through his straightened throat. Wes gasped, sucking in a rattling breath, short and painful--the reprieve was slight, but more air than he’d had--and Wilson’s voice came in, speaking over Maxwell, repeating itself over and over again, like before--

“...ry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…”

The phrase was frantic, whimpered, and Wilson didn’t seem to be aware he was saying it. As his face-- _his_ face came into focus, so did the razor slash down his cheek, still dripping onto Wes’ own. Wes blinked blood out of his eyes, waiting to die from the slit Maxwell had put in his throat. He could breathe, he could at least breathe now, but Wilson was too late. He had a hazy recollection of seeing pigs hanging in la boucherie as a child, heads down, bleeding out.

There was a brief tug, another sensation of slicing, and Wilson withdrew his hand from Wes’ hair-- _with_ his hair, a lock of it in hand next to the bloody razor, and as more air eased loose the dark smoke in his skull, he realised he wasn’t the one that had been hurt. He coughed, partially delirious, but saw the cut on Wilson’s face, weeping red just shy of the scientist’s eye, and in the blood he had an epiphany.

He was going to die. Not from a cut, no, but from his throat--from the strangled, laboured breath that couldn’t fill his lungs, from the taste of rot and fever, from the memory of the pigs. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry Wes I’m sorry…”

Wilson’s apologies finally broke down as Wes started crying. He seemed to come back to himself, swallowing a couple of times before speaking again.

“Can… can you hold your head like that? Just like that? Just for a minute. I only need a minute. There and back. I promise.”

Wes complied, quietly--he was still crying, but completely pliable now; he managed a miniscule nod--as far as he was concerned, Wilson could do whatever he wanted now. It wouldn’t really matter any more. 

He let him go carefully. “I’ll be right back. I just need to--please, not yet, don’t go yet--I won’t--I won’t let you--” The words disintegrated, the last not coming out, and he started to get to his feet. Wes reached out, taking Wilson by the hand before the scientist could actually leave--he pressed his lips to the back of it, leaving a warm and lingering kiss before letting go. 

He trusted Wilson. It didn’t matter any more, really, but--he--gratitude, affection, a farewell--

In a kiss, he gave what little he had.

Wilson didn’t move, hand by Wes’, first completely still, then his shoulders shaking, then the rest of his thin frame, until the words exploded out of him, hot with desperate rage.

_”I won’t let you die!”_

And he was up and running, not looking back, swallowed up by the crawling dark.

Wes didn’t respond. His eyes closed--they were still hot and wet with tears, and he supported himself weakly, his head angled back just enough for that thin, miserable inlet of oxygen--the creatures of the shadows lapped at the corner of his vision, his tears choking him, their claws catching the edges of his mind, his clothes. He didn’t have the strength to hold himself up any more--to keep fighting. Maybe he should have listened before--when Wilson asked him to stop fighting--

Slowly, he sank onto the ground, his head still back, the weight in his chest closing over him for the final time. 

The ringing slowed with his pulse, and he only distantly felt hands closing around his neck.

As they ended it, Wilson was the last thing on his mind.


	5. Or With His Nails He'll Dig It Up Again! (4b)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breeding lilacs out of the dead land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FROM RAILE: For all that I enjoy writing people in various states of misery, I think I like writing Wes normally even more. He's so physically expressive when he's feeling well that it's just fun. One of the interesting things about Wes is he thinks and acts very much in the present-tense. It makes for an interesting dynamic with Wilson, in both good and bad ways.
> 
> FROM DEL: Del does not like character death. Del’s rallying cry is “Just this once, Rose, everyone lives”. Del may have had to be physically restrained from spoiling everything the minute chapter 4a went up. Del would like to be let out now, if that’s all right. Please? Hello? Anyone? 
> 
> (Done and dusted.)

Darkness: stifling, smothering, silencing. The world was mute. He was deaf, blind--numbed in body but crushed by it, enveloped only in the smell of wood and meat. He remembered--he remembered colour and weight--or weightlessness; shape and movement-- 

He could remember--

He moved. Not by wind or lightness, by something else--he couldn’t--no--

What were the colours missing? 

It filled him--filled his chest, inflating his lungs as breath into a balloon.

He moved. Not was moved-- _he _moved.__

___Moved_ \--moved by suffocation, by muscle, blood--_ _

___He was going to die._ _ _

__He cracked open--splintering, shattering along the back; it was as though an egg, or an exoskeleton, reality splitting apart--_ _

__And suddenly the rush--blinding and terrible, light and sound and _air_ as he was thrown into it, hitting the ground and feeling hard ground and cool earth, feeling brittle dry grass and bright frigid air, feeling--_ _

__Sight. Hearing. Scent. _Feeling_._ _

__“It--it worked, it _worked_ it-- _of course it worked I’m a genius_ Wes I’m a genius _Wes_ \--”_ _

__Wilson knelt by him, laughing giddily, tears running openly down his face as he plucked splinters from Wes’ hair. Wes’ forearms were pressed against the ground, half-supporting him as he lay there, still dazed by life, by existence--_ _

__For a few moments he just lay there, delirious and exhilarated without meaning, drowning in the sensation of air in his lungs and the endless influx of colours from reality._ _

__He felt _alive._ _ _

__Wilson, however…_ _

__Soon, Wes’ vision cleared and straightened, and his _thoughts_ came back together, sensate instead of sensory. _ _

__Wilson looked a disaster. Wes wouldn’t have thought it possible for the man to be more pale, or the circles under his eyes darker, and his laughter was close to hysteria. The razor cut down his cheek was sticky-wet, encrusted with old tissue and blood, and the sight solidified the reality of things. That the time before… not Before, but before… before this, between the sickness and pain and--and now, and whatever had ended it, had been real._ _

__“Oh God, you’re ali--you’re all right, you’re… are you all right, let me see--” Wilson pulled down Wes’ shirt awkwardly, enough to look at his collarbone. “Haha, you’re--no bruises, you’re breathing--Wes, you’re breathing again, does it still hurt?”_ _

__Wes’ enraptured expression faded into worry, and he pushed Wilson’s hands away, instead taking the scientist’s face in his own hands, brows knitting in visible concern. He didn’t hold him long, but long enough--enough to give Wilson at least a second’s pause before Wes climbed up off the ground (using Wilson’s shoulder, briefly, to help him) and managed his feet._ _

__Wilson’s enthusiasm didn’t fade, but his energy did, Wes’ worry flustering him. “I… haven’t been sleeping much, I’ll be all right. But--you. Wes. Answer me, please, are you… do you feel _anything_ in your throat, a-anything at _all_? It’s important.” His enthusiasm _did_ fade with that, replaced by exhausted insecurity. “...it’s only a prototype…”_ _

__Wes needed his makeup. The sudden and immediate need for his face hit him all at once and he raised one finger urgently to halt Wilson’s questioning. He cast about, desperately patting his pockets, but no--only his balloons were there; he pulled one out quickly, blowing up a cheery lime green moose that bounced merrily as he shoved it at Wilson before turning to the camp, intent on finding that which belonged to him._ _

__“Nnph--” Wilson grabbed the balloon as it bounced off his face, confusion not quite overtaking concern. “Wes, answer me, _please_!”_ _

__Wes didn’t answer, flipping open the nearest chest and digging through it impatiently--he was not panicked, but there was a sense of urgency to his actions;_ _

__It clicked and Wilson hissed frustration through his teeth, letting the moose go. It floated a few inches skyward to hover beside him. “ _Honestly_ \--Wes, I have it, here.” He pulled Wes’ compact from a pocket and held it out. “Now will you _please_ \--”_ _

__“Oh, thank you!” Wes took the makeup from Wilson with genuine gratitude, his smile returning quickly._ _

__Wilson’s mouth fell open, but nothing came out. His cheeks went slowly pink, the hand that had held the compact frozen in midair, and he made an attempt. “...did you just--”_ _

__The moose popped against the back of his head and he laced his hands across the spot, stifling an aggravated scream._ _

__Wes was on his feet in an instant, worry replacing his smile._ _

__“Be _careful_ \--” Wes knew better than anyone how painful those balloons could be if you popped one by accident, let alone against your _head_ \--_ _

__Wilson looked up, eyes watering, and exhaled. “You’re… _talking_.”_ _

__Wes regarded him somewhat disconcertingly--Wilson’s voice was too unsteady to decipher, but the statement made him feel a little queasy. Frustration, maybe, or just discomfiture._ _

__“You’re…” Wilson wavered, lack of sleep evident as he grasped for something, failed to find it, finished off lamely. “...talking.”_ _

__Wes nodded, finally confirming it--as though that could help somehow. Then he gripped Wilson by the shoulders, makeup still in hand. Firmly, he pushed Wilson down--into a sitting position, at the very least; he looked up at him, cheeks bright red now beneath the darkness of his eyes, and he made a helpless noise under his breath._ _

__“I just… don’t understand.”_ _

__The level of Wilson’s agitation suggested that it was more than a “just”, and he looked away from Wes, rubbing the back of his head again. Wes paused--in his dazed state, Wilson wasn’t paying attention to the spread of his legs, and the source of his agitation… was not subtle. Wes’ brows peaked slightly--sympathetically--and he bent, kissing Wilson gently on the forehead._ _

__“--uh…” Wilson shivered briefly, hands clenching in the grass, staring doe-eyed at Wes. Then Wes kissed him--hard, on the mouth; his tongue pressed past Wilson’s lips, and he could feel the scientist whimper as he awkwardly reciprocated, angling his neck to let him closer._ _

__It was not an expert kiss by any means, but it was both eager and sincere--besides Wilson’s condition now, Wes felt _amazing_ , and he put all of that into those few seconds of passionate contact._ _

__A shudder ran down Wilson’s body as Wes let him go, and he gasped softly, no longer reluctant to speak. “Wes--Wes I really think I might--if you--I feel like--I haven’t felt like--I--you--”_ _

__“ _Sleep._ Please?” In truth, Wes would have happily jumped Wilson right now--he felt like he could do just about anything right now, in fact, but Wilson’s state was a little frightening--more than anything, Wes wanted to see Wilson _asleep._ And--_ _

__\--he really wanted to put his makeup on._ _

__“Yes. All right.” The reply was almost automatic, and Wilson looked vaguely surprised at himself, but he laid back obediently. A faint tone of authority returned to his voice as he closed his eyes, but it was close to drowned out by exhaustion. “Don’t… push yourself. Wake me up if… anything.”_ _

__The sentence didn’t finish so much as drop off, and Wilson was asleep. Wes nodded, silent--it was a pointlessly gesture, but he had no plans to wake Wilson anyway. Not for the world._ _

__With a smile and some relief, he opened his makeup, more than eager to have his face on again._ _

__He’d missed himself._ _

__\----_ _

__It was a full day before Wilson stirred, and it wasn’t clear if he was actually awake when he sat up. His eyes were still closed, and he was still for a few moments before reaching up to touch the back of his head._ _

__Wes watched him, though he didn’t so much as move; if Wilson was going back to sleep, he didn’t want to accidentally wake him. After a minute, though, he opened bleary eyes and looked at Wes, studying him carefully._ _

__“...you’re alive?”_ _

__Wes’ beamed, painted face just shy of beatific--there was no need to nod, though, so he didn’t._ _

__“...you’re sure?” Wilson was fully awake now, and the question was faintly pleading, bruised by what they had gone through._ _

__Wes blinked. He looked at himself, extending each arm in turn, then turned each one over as though inspecting for some sort of flaw. Finding none, he did the same with his legs, then turned around, looking down his back--finally, he faced Wilson again, spreading his arms with a smile._ _

__Yep. Everything was in place._ _

__Wilson didn’t return the smile, head dropping, shoulders slumped._ _

__The mime stopped, brows peaking with worry--maybe Wilson did need to go back to sleep._ _

__He mumbled something inaudible, not looking up._ _

__Frowning, Wes bent down, hoping Wilson would repeat that._ _

__“I almost lost you.”_ _

__He didn’t look up, and from the thickness of his voice Wes realized he was crying--maybe had been crying more than he’d let on while he was… sick._ _

__Wes’ smile disappeared, and his face collapsed rather dramatically, an expression exaggerated by his rouged cheeks--but he shook his head firmly. Taking Wilson’s face in his gloved hands, he tried to coax Wilson to look at him; they had both been stupid, he felt--Wes had refused to acknowledge how badly off he was, and he especially was to blame. But Wilson--through his ingenuity, Wilson had literally saved him. Wes didn’t want to think about what would have happened if he’d died--if he’d… _remained_ dead. He was sure Maxwell would have had something in mind. Or not. Maybe there was a permanent death somewhere in here. He didn’t know. It didn’t matter. He was _alive_ \--and he had Wilson to thank for it. All this and more he desperately wanted to communicate, but he had his face on now--and Wilson needed to _look_ to him for him to even try. _ _

__After a second, Wilson did let Wes guide his face a bit, and they made eye contact; Wes searched Wilson’s expression for a moment, looking for some kind of cue._ _

__“...I was reckless. If the effigy hadn’t worked...I’m sorry.”_ _

__Wes looked puzzled. Then he sighed deeply, sitting down and patting Wilson’s head apologetically with one white-gloved hand--in the end, it was probably his fault. Wes’, that is. He got up after a second, going to the remains of the wooden… thing. Wes wasn’t actually sure what it was--an ‘effigy,’ Wilson had called it?--and picked through the pieces. He’d not been sure what to do with them, but now he gathered a few and brought them back, dumping them rather pointedly in Wilson’s lap._ _

__It _had_ worked. _ _

__Looking down at the shattered wood, then back up at Wes, Wilson finally cracked a tiny, lopsided smile._ _

__“...all right. I get it. But…” He shook his head. “...never mind. ...you...really do seem better.”_ _

__Wes smiled again, equal parts relief and genuine happiness. He sat back down next to Wilson, glad for the break in the scientist’s despair. He tapped Wilson’s shoulder pointedly, though, tipping his head inquiringly._ _

__“What? ...me?” Wilson mirrored the movement, unaware he was doing so. Wes nodded, this time with greater emphasis. “I’m all right, I was just… thinking. That’s all. It’s been a long…” He stopped himself before saying _how_ long. _ _

__Wes frowned a little, but managed to avoid the slight twinge of exasperation from expressing itself in a sigh. Of course he was thinking--Wilson was always thinking. Sometimes to the detriment of other things. And yet he somehow managed not to think things _through_. Not that Wes could claim to be much better, but… _ _

__He leaned forward, kissing Wilson on the cheek. His makeup left behind a mark, which actually somewhat resembled a heart. Wes then reached out to touch Wilson’s face just below the crusted edges of the razor’s cut._ _

__“...oh-- _ow_ \--” Wilson accepted the kiss with something like awe, but flinched away from Wes’ hand, reaching up to cover the cut with a vaguely sheepish look. “I, uh. Forgot about that.”_ _

__He was a terrible liar._ _

__Wes rolled his eyes._ _

__Wilson gave up, dropping his head. “...we’re out of spider stuff. I put the last of it in the soup.” He groaned at Wes’ expression of disgust, pressing his hands to his temples. “I know--I _know_. I didn’t know what else to do, I’m sorry.”_ _

__After the initial shock--a sickening kind of _oh_ \--Wes was able to admit that it made a certain kind of sense, but… eugh. _Ew.__ _

__“It’s over, right? Done. That’s something. _Ow._ ” The scientist winced as he felt the cut again, wrinkled his nose as his hand came away bloody._ _

__Wes took Wilson by the wrist, pulling his hand away--the wound was stitched, on closer inspection, and after a second of confusion, Wes realised Wilson must have stitched it himself. It was impressive--and distressing; he didn’t let go of Wilson’s wrist, but reached up with his other hand, touching the very edge of the wound. It was dark and gritty, though the fresh blood oozing up from it was beginning to obscure that, and Wilson flinched visibly when he touched it. Concerned, Wes removed his hand, then pulled out his makeup cloth, holding it up in offer--if nothing else, he could at least clean it._ _

__He didn’t exactly look thrilled, but Wilson nodded nonetheless. “...thanks. Just… careful.” Wes met his gaze momentarily, nodding before he began to work, patting gently at the edges of the wound first to make sure he didn’t end up dragging anything in._ _

__The tension left Wilson’s shoulders at Wes’ caution, and his eyes slowly became preoccupied. “Um...Wes. ...your voice.” Wes paused to make eye contact again, bracing himself slightly for Wilson to continue. He seemed uncertain, then made a tentative guess. “...French?” Wes relaxed slightly, letting out his breath; he wasn’t embarrassed, but he was relieved--and a little exasperated. It wasn’t Wilson’s fault, but--but. Well._ _

__He rolled his eyes at the scientist, but nodded._ _

__“Oh.” He seemed vaguely confused, pondered it for a minute before speaking again. “...Wes?”_ _

__Wes stopped again, his working hand hovering a few inches from Wilson’s face._ _

__“I… do you… feel like… I… I think I…” He floundered, going red, and he opened and closed his mouth a few times before trying again. “Maxwell said… that you and I…” He trailed off uselessly._ _

__Wes lowered his hand slowly. But he didn’t answer--he just stared at Wilson in silence, waiting._ _

__Wilson took a shuddering breath, exhaled. “...he implied we. Were romantically. Inclined.” He swallowed, not quite meeting Wes’ eyes. “...are we?”_ _

__A coil of cold anxiety had gripped Wes by the stomach. When the question came out, however, he could only sit there dumbly for several seconds--his expression wavered, struggling between confusion and disbelief and something like humourous despair. He ducked his head, trying to get ahold of the desperation that bubbled up from his throat--_ _

__“It’s--it’s not funny!” Wilson grabbed him by the shoulders, face flush with humiliation. “If--if you want to keep doing what we’re doing and that’s it I understand but Wes _I really think I lo--_ ” He choked on the last word, swallowed, forced it out. “...I think I love you.” With that, he pressed his hands to his temples again, biting his lip miserably, waiting to be rebuffed._ _

__It was like a cold shock--cold, hot, and Wes shook his head, then nodded, then shook his head a second time. He didn’t know whether he was trying not to laugh or trying not to cry, or maybe both._ _

__Wilson tried desperately to follow, shaking his head himself. “Wes--please, answer me, I don’t--are you upset, just--I’m sorry--”_ _

__Wes had--Wes had thought it was understood, but--_ _

__He--_ _

__Wilson--_ _

__He shook his head a third time, trying to express that he was not, in fact, upset--not the way Wilson meant, anyway, but--_ _

__He dropped the makeup cloth on the ground and pressed forward suddenly, burying his face against Wilson’s chest._ _

__Wilson’s thin frame shook briefly, and Wes felt him draw breath before he touched his neck, trying to get him to look up. Wes lifted his head shakily--he didn’t quite make eye contact, and his eyes darted to the side, only meeting Wilson’s gaze in quick, anxious glances._ _

__“...I’ll love you if you love me.” Wilson swallowed. “...and if you won’t.”_ _

___”Try to tell him ‘I love you’ like that.”_ _ _

__Wes felt numb. He didn’t--he didn’t know what to do. He--he wanted--what he wanted, it wasn’t--_ _

__Maxwell didn’t want him to have it. Maxwell would see him die sooner than let him have it._ _

__But Maxwell--_ _

__No. Non, qu'il aille se faire foutre. He’d already made up his mind. And--now--Wilson--_ _

__Wes struggled, briefly--but steeled himself and grabbed Wilson's hand, pulling it towards him; he pressed it against his lips, silently, but mouthed the words--words he could not say, not out loud, but which could be felt, if not heard._ _

___I love you.__ _

__The tension of his body made it clear that Wilson was still expecting rejection, and he was thrown for a moment, afraid to understand. Then his arms closed around Wes almost too tightly._ _

__“...thank you.” Then, after a moment: “... _thank you_.”_ _

__Wes was torn between embarrassment--deep, intense embarrassment that heated his face and body--and gratitude; it was simultaneously overwhelming and cleansing, and he pressed his forehead against Wilson’s chest again, filling his lungs deeply with cold winter air. He was breathing harder than he’d realised. He’d--he’d just..._ _

__“Wes…” Wilson touched the back of Wes’ head, the word a gentle imperative now rather than a desperate command. “Breathe.”_ _

__Wes exhaled, still leaning against Wilson shakily._ _

__Wilson’s lopsided smile slowly faded, replaced by panic. “Wes, I--I’m terrible at this, I don’t know how to--what do we _do_ with this, what happens next?”_ _

__Wes looked up at him._ _

__“Oh.” Wilson’s face went slowly red, and he repeated himself, more thoughtfully. “...oh.”_ _

__After that, there was warm silence, broken only by the muted fall of snow from branches._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends part one of the Waste Lands series. 
> 
> There may be a little pause between this and the beginning of part two, A Game At Chess. Gotta get my notes in order, etc. If you want to keep abreast of updates (or to talk to me I guess?) I have a tumblr for that kinda thing, it's mimepowerhour. 
> 
> Also, I think Delcat is working on a one-shot to go between The Burial of the Dead and A Game At Chess, so keep an eye out for that. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> The two authors are morons who use different forms of English. Delcat uses American English, Raile uses... uh, Rest of the World English. 
> 
> If there are any disparities, they probably just got overlooked in proofing. Sorry.


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